


ten cent pistol

by walksbyherself



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, Implied Incest, Motorcycle Gang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-29
Updated: 2013-01-29
Packaged: 2017-11-27 10:03:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/660704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/walksbyherself/pseuds/walksbyherself
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brauron belongs to the Arktoi and Artemis does what she must to keep it that way. </p>
<p>Her life is everything she wanted when she left her father’s house.</p>
<p>She’s afraid it won’t last.</p>
            </blockquote>





	ten cent pistol

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Porn Battle XIV (Fiery Fourteen). The prompt words were: AU, kindred, vicious, loyalty. The title comes from the Black Keys song of the same name.

Brauron belongs to the Arktoi and Artemis does what she must to keep it that way. The bars are hers and the strip joints are hers and the sheriff is in her pocket. Every other club that wants to run product up or down the coast has to pass through her town and they pay for the privilege. If they think that the only all-female motorcycle club for seven states is going to be a pushover, they are quickly proved wrong. The desert has a wide embrace to welcome the dead.

There is a woman in Artemis’ bed and she does what she must to keep her there. Kallisto is bright and golden; she smells of gasoline and warm asphalt and everything Artemis loves. Artemis leaves epic poems of her devotion with her teeth on Kallisto’s thighs, presses her desire inside on the tip of her tongue. Kallisto sobs and begs, hips rolling, but Artemis doesn’t let go. Her love is greedy; Kallisto knew that before she ever kissed her, quick and chaste behind the garage in the fall when the weather was turning. Now it is summer and the sweat stands out on her lover’s skin. Artemis laps it from the hollow of her throat, fingers slick and curling.

Her life is everything she wanted when she left her father’s house.

She’s afraid it won’t last.

 

The trouble starts small. Her father’s Olympians are scaring patrons out of Arktoi bars, harassing the staff, driving club profits down. It’s petty, no less than she expected from her father but so much milder than she dreamed. It still needs to be dealt with. She still doesn’t want to.

“I’ll go for you,” Kallisto says one morning over breakfast.

Artemis’ head jerks up. “You’re sure?”

“Of course. If he’s half the asshole you’ve said he is, you don’t need to be anywhere near him.” Kallisto dishes scrambled eggs onto their plates. “I’m your second; I can speak for you. I’ll get it sorted out and be back by dinner.”

She isn’t back by dinner.

 

Artemis finds her in the kitchen the next morning, clutching a cup of coffee, eyes bloodshot. Before Artemis can ask what happened, Kallisto walks out.

They play a game of avoidance for weeks. Kallisto shows up to club meetings and her shifts at the garage, but she won’t sleep in Artemis’ bed, won’t even meet her eyes.

Artemis corners her eventually in the hall bathroom, hunched over the toilet. Kallisto is only dry heaving, nerves and not illness; the source is obvious--a pregnancy test lies forgotten in the sink. Artemis doesn’t bother to count the blue lines; her sinking feeling drops all the way through the floor.

“Who was it?” (She knows already and hates that she knows.) “ _Who?_ ” she howls and Kallisto flinches.

Kallisto drags the back of her hand over her mouth, scrubbing away bile. “It was your father.”

 

Kallisto tells her what happened in fits and starts. Artemis sits beside her on the bathroom floor, close but not touching, and listens. It’s a familiar story.

(Artemis remembers Leda, one of the Olympians’ women. She got along with everybody, always had a smile and a kind word. Once, after a patching over, she’d been making eyes at a new guy all night. It had been enough to set off Zeus’s temper.

She remembers watching Zeus throw Leda down on a pool table and fuck her right there in front of everyone; the wings of her swan tattoo flexing along her shoulder blades as she tried to crawl away.

Artemis had been twelve.)

Eventually, carefully, they move back into Artemis’ room. She spoons up behind Kallisto on the bed, slides one hand around to rest on her stomach.

This could be her child. The only child she may ever have.

“It’s gonna be alright,” Artemis says. “We’ll make it alright.”

“Yes,” Kallisto breathes back. “We will.”

 

Artemis is wrist-deep in an engine rebuild when her phone rings. She wipes her hands off, digs her phone out from her pocket. “What.”

“Art.” It’s her brother. He’s the only one who ever got away with calling her that. (He stayed behind and most days she doesn’t blame him. It’s not like Daddy was trying to watch _him_ in the shower.)

“Your girl’s been here for the last two hours. She’s in Dad’s office; sounds like they’re just talking, but--”

“Yeah.” Sometimes talking is dangerous enough. “Thanks, Apollo. I appreciate it.”

“Of course, sweetheart. Stay safe, okay?”

She hangs up so she won’t have to lie to him.

 

The following night, Artemis and Kallisto go for a ride. 

(It’s something they did more often when the club was young: take just one bike and a blanket and drive out into the desert well past dark. They’d watch the stars and make out like teenagers until it got too cold to stand.)

Kallisto wanders in a slow circle after they park, talking about her doctor’s appointment and the girls she met in the waiting room. Artemis drops the kickstand, draws her gun from the saddlebag.

“Get on your knees, honey.” 

Kallisto glances back, a smile already starting to form. She thinks Artemis is flirting right up until she spots the gun. The blood drains from her face. “Artemis, please--”

“Turn the fuck around and get down on your knees.”

She does, slowly, shakily, hands raised. “Baby, you’ve got to understand--”

Artemis doesn’t want to hear it. “I understand perfectly. You sold me out.”

“No, no, that’s _not_ true.” Kallisto risks a peek over her shoulder; her pupils are blown in fear. “I...I made a deal, yeah, but it’s the best thing for all of us. It’s going to keep us safe. We just...we just have to get patched over, and then he’ll leave us alone.”

“He’ll leave us alone,” Artemis repeats. “I should give up my club-- _my club_ \--because you think he’ll keep his word?”

“You’ll lose the club anyway!” Kallisto screams. The silence after is ringing, lasts for a solid minute before Kallisto adds, “He’s so angry, baby. We have to take his terms. Do you know what he _wants_ to do to us? Do you know what he wants to do to _you_?”

“Of _course_ I fucking know!”

(She’s known for years, known since he looked up and smiled, one hand pressing bruises into the back of Leda’s neck. He did everything but touch her and she thought she was safe.

Whatever she does now, it will be war: with her father first, and then whatever’s left of the Olympians after. She doesn’t care. She _wants_ a war, wants bloodshed and ruin, wants the world to suffer for almost being everything she hoped for.

But this could be her child. The only child she may ever have.)

“I did it for you,” Kallisto is sobbing. “I did it for _us_.”

“I know, baby.” Artemis pulls the trigger.


End file.
